Dear Reader,

Wow, what an unprecedented time we live in. We can safely say that when we started accepting submissions for this year's magazine back in the fall, we had no idea we would be producing this year's content via an online platform. Even though LS is closed and we are unable to regularly meet, we know it is in dark times like these that art is needed more than ever. Poetry, prose, and art are truly an expression of character, life, and emotion. This community, a community of students, staff, parents, etc. that thrive off human connection and shared experience, are no longer present in the same institution. Thus, we needed some sort of outlet to get these amazing pieces out into the world, and to give you some inspiration and creativity. It is understandably hard to remain happy and optimistic during a time of such loss and uncertainty. However, we hope that this magazine brightens your spirits and sends along the message that this too shall pass. Enjoy :)

~ The Editors

Banner Art: Dark Yellow and a Shadow by Ami Sao

Editorial Board

Questions? Interested in joining our club? Please email fountain@lsrhs.net and we'll happily respond to you!

Where I Come From

Cracked sidewalks covered in old gum and cigarette butts intoxicating the environment. Corner stores and boutiques playing music loud enough to be heard from down the street hinting all the different ethnicities in the neighborhood. Fast food and authentic restaurants fighting over customers who just want some food. Coming home was always easy for me until I realized what it really was.
There are crackheads around every corner passed out, drinking, and asking every car at the red light for some change hoping and praying for that one person that will finally give them anything. Just so they can go and smoke it away. When that bright yellow bus with Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School on the side pulls into the neighborhood it almost seems like they vanish. Getting off the cramped bus which I've only been on for an hour but feels like ages is a satisfying feeling. Blood flowing back through the legs getting ready for the long walk ahead.
I start to walk along this cursed sidewalk that seems to never let people grow or become successful. It seems like it always has a tight grip on your legs making sure you can’t go anywhere. The aroma of the pastelitos, and pollo guisados strikes my nose and immediately lifts me from that sidewalk and brings me home.
As I get closer to home I can hear the laughter of the local civilians but I can also hear sadness. In front of one of the many corners stores lined up in a row there is a mother and her son. Her young son excited to tell his mother how his day at school went but she had something important to tell him. She wept can you eat a hot pocket for dinner tonight. He says anything for you mommy and at that exact moment she started crying rivers of tears. It almost seemed like she swallowed him with such a big bear hug that was filled with all the love she could give him. I stopped and listened to her promising it will never happen to him again and it made me realize that no matter how bad you think life is it will always get better. I learned to be grateful for what I have and to not think that I need little things such as Fortnite skins and designer clothing because there are people out there with nothing. I know the streets can either make or break you and it's all about who you surround yourself with but where I'm from it seems like there is no one to surround yourself with. It's all about who's making the most money drug dealing or who is getting the most women and it's definitely not about getting a good education and getting out the hood. There’s no way I want my life to be about that. I want to be remembered for what I did to get out the hood and all the hard work it took me. I know that if no one wants to help me it will be alright because I know I'm always up for a challenge.

by Nicholas Rivera

To Hear a Song

To hear a song of peace amongst fiery rage,
to let tears fall and feel my heart touch the ground,
to listen and give way to a calming Sound,
these vibrations that cushion my mortal cage
bring solace in times of never-ending pain.
For when vacant or pensive moods hold me bound,
music’s many tones is where my Self is found.
On a bus with passing blurs, I am kept sane
when songs do play. Yet to join in childlike joy
a friend’s chorus of a song not fully known,
and to sing knowing others we may annoy,
we laugh without end and dance till we fall down.
You comfort and excite like a child’s old toy,
your countless voices, into my Mind I drown.

by Tark Mwain

In the Night

“308 marking moms at heading 210 for forty at 9000ft."
Keying the mic thinking I got the syntax right on that last transmission, I’m validated by the carrier's air traffic control.
“308, mother's weather visibility is 2 plus miles sea state level five. Mild storm at 6000, cloud base 500, Case III recovery expected. Base recovery course at 351, see you at 10."
"308," I say, as I acknowledge the information the marshal just gave to me. 40 miles out in the dead of night, the outside of my canopy is pitch black; even with night vision on my heart is racing. Lowering my hook just knowing that I’m in limbo while strapped to a piece of metal infiltrating the darkness at a 250 knots, 9000ft above the world, is the deepest desire I've ever experienced in my life. It makes driving a car looks like riding a bike. Just by squinting into my left digital display, I momentarily feel my stomach tighten as my most prized sense is deprived of all information outside of my little cockpit. As I hurtle through the darkness, I set my navigation equipment to the right settings and I look back outside into the twilight. Feeling relieved as the water below me is right where I left it, 9000ft away, I push the throttle farther forward to maintain my speed, as the increased thrust of my two after-burning engines push my avatar back into his seat. My heart fills with butterflies as the speed of my aircraft starts to rise back to safe levels now, we wait until I get closer. Ten miles out from my floating home, my heart starts to beat as fast as my engines spin, my mind goes to work. I key the mic after twenty mins of radio silence.
“Marshal, 308 at 10.”
“308, say fuel state.”
“308, low state 3.5."
I wish I had more fuel, 3,500 pounds of gas is good for maybe 2 tries at the carrier. If I miss both, I’ll need to go find the recovery tanker and that means air to air refueling at night in a storm. Looking down out of pure habit, I need to recheck everything: instruments and landing gear, check, flaps, check. I tap the speed brake to slow down to 135 knots, sensing that the ground is getting closer. I adjust the trim slightly and try to fly accordingly. The fog isn’t helping, but second-guessing myself could get me killed. Two miles out, after 10 minutes I key the mic.
“308 hornet ball, 2.5.”
“Roger ball,” the landing signal officer says, acknowledging my fuel state and my identification. I turn into my final approach, hailing the tower; they turn on the landing lights to illuminate the ship for me. A massive ship with a flat deck and planes parked in rows comes out of the fog. For the first time in half an hour, I felt at peace, everything goes into slow motion. I adjust the throttle and everything falls into place as I count the seconds as the ground comes up to meet me. Coming down quickly as an asteroid, wham, I slam into the carrier’s deck pushing me into my tightened seat belt straps as the aircraft is slowed down by the wire my aircraft caught. My heart skips a beat, my aircraft is slowing down, my mind is at peace. Stowing my hook and flaps, I use nose wheel steering to park on the side of the landing area waiting for refueling and rearming. Mechanics, refueling teams and weapons handlers swarm my aircraft. Careful to not move the aircraft at all as the engines are still hot I push in the parking break. I open the canopy, a boy not more than 19 yrs old jumps in and tests sub systems and flight controls for bugs. It’s surprising how young he is. As quickly as he came he’s gone. He gives me a thumbs up as I jump back into the seat and attach my oxygen mask. The ground crew is finished servicing my aircraft. They back away from my plane as I power my 46,000 pound weapon to a catapult area. The deck crew attach my aircraft into a catapult and I feel the plane lurch forward as the catapult stores energy until it reaches the breaking point. A man in the yellow shirt with fluorescent aviation batons waves his hand quickly, telling me to add full power. Then he leans down and fires his hand like a gun. My plane accelerates down the carrier and like a fired bullet, I’m shot into the black night once again, to carry out another mission.

by Kofi Amoa

Inexcusable Absence

Everywhere I look:
No one like me,
I’m not in your books.

American history you say,
But one without trans
Or umbrella term 'gay'.

Queer heroes left on the floor;
If taught at all,
Their identities ignored.

No Stonewall, Milk, Rivera, Johnson, Ride;
No Lorde, Hart, Völling, Rustin, Turing...
You’ve tried to take our pride.

Continual struggle to accept
Non cis/het identities
That have been exempt -

Absent from your histories,
Sex-eds, ELAs, biologies,
And any class that uses binaries.

All generations will have to pay,
For the incomplete education
That you thought was okay.

by Alyssea Immonen

Touch of the Torch

His hand rested on the flame of the torch
It returned unharmed
His mind resisted
but his body stood in allegiance
With the flame, his mind told him to scat
But his body and the flame bonded together in harmony

In a stimulated state of harmony
The city was lit by a single touch of the torch
SCAT!
His hand was unharmed
They stood in allegiance
Reluctant to resist

Afraid to resist
Seeking for harmony
The city’s reluctant allegiance
Fueled by the torch
Hoping to remain unharmed
Scat

Born to scat
No longer able to resist
No longer protected, no longer unharmed
No longer in harmony
No longer fueled by the torch,
Yet somehow they stood in allegiance

Allegiance
The carnivorous creatures’ widespread scat
Their fur devoured by the torch
They tried to resist
They no longer cared for harmony
They left all but unharmed

His hand once unharmed
The once loyal allegiance
Once in harmony
Forced to scat,
To resist,
By the touch of the torch

Scat! He was ordered as his robotic hand melted away. Though he escaped, he felt all but unharmed. His allegiance only brought the horrors of the utopian world into the light. The only solution in sight was to resist.

He wanted harmony but all was controlled, created, destroyed, all the power in the touch of the torch.

by Emily Chen

Who am I?

Turning into my own,
Turning into who I am supposed to be.
But… who am I supposed to be?
A protector? One who stands valiantly at the end?
Looking down upon insurmountable odds with shield in hand?
Or maybe a defiant soul who is willing to break the rules?
A delinquent who runs the risks, rolls the dice?
Or even a scholar, who cultivates the frontier through a computer.
So when Push comes to shove,
When it really counts,
Who am I?

by Jackson Williams
Inspired by Lucille Clifton